


memory of a kiss

by marzipan (orphan_account)



Series: vampcroft??? [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Vampires, mycroft is a meglomaniac lol, vampcroft again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-05-25 00:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14965355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/marzipan
Summary: Jim and a Mycroft are an on-again, off-again, vampire couplefor the prompt "sad kiss", even though it's not really. but it is sad and there is a kiss





	1. Chapter 1

Jim tosses down the limp body carelessly, before nudging it aside with his foot, not bothering to wipe the blood off his face.

Mycroft  _grimaces_.

Not good enough, then.

“Oops,” Jim says, not sounding apologetic at all. “Though he can’t have been that important, if you let him run around with shoddy, ordinary security.”

He strides across the room to the taller undead creature, head tilting side to side, studying him.

“Did you miss me?” 

Mycroft’s shoulders draw up, his expression pinches a bit, and for all intents and purposes he looks like a man trying not to breathe. Old habits die hard, Jim supposes. He reaches up with one bloodied hand to stroke Mycroft’s cheek.

“I found you before, and you know I’ll always find you  _again_ , you might as well stop running,” Jim tsks. “What silly reason are you going to give me this time?”

Mycroft removes the offending hand with a finger and that stern iciness returns to his eyes.

“And what do you think you’re playing at,  _Mr. Moriarty_ , barging into an embassy hotel like this? You’d have the Secret Service suspect the criminal mastermind they’re after is slipping.”

Jim eyes, on the other hand,  _burn._ He grabs Mycroft’s hand before he can retract it, gripping hard enough to fracture bone.

“As if  _any_  of that matters to me, matters to  _you_. Stop pretending. Stop  _pretending_ ,” he hisses. “This  _isn’t who you are_.”

-

It wasn’t always like this, Jim thinks.

-

Mycroft cups Jim’s face in his hands and kisses him so tenderly he’d almost believe he was the center of his world. 

It’s intoxicating, to have that sort of effect on such a controlled and powerful man. More than the soul consuming couplings or the bone deep need to feel him close, closer,  _everywhere_ , and even more when he had his fangs to his neck. These gentle ministrations were another kind of heady sensation altogether and Jim was  giddy with it. A simple gesture, a soft press of lips against his, but in those quiet moments Jim felt cherished, cared for, beloved. 

He wants to hold onto that forever. 

Jim takes hold of Mycroft’s hand, covering it with both his own. 

“You won’t do it?” 

He asks every night, and the answer is always the same.

“I can’t.”

That was an eternity ago.

-

As Jim lays in a warm pool of his own blood, consciousness drifting, he thinks that dying is much like flying after all. 

Somewhere, around the edge of his mind, he knows Mycroft is leaning over him, that if he could still taste he would no doubt sense the salt of his tears. He can’t help but feel like he’s won something, though he has no idea how much he is about to lose.

The next time he opens his eyes the world’s been drenched in darkness. His throat  _burns._ If his mind were not so possessed by primal need he would have sooner realized he was buried in earth. 

He doesn’t remember much about the moments after that. Nor the six humans he goes through. Or even Mycroft standing quietly over him the whole time, telling him where to bite, pulling him off the past-drained bodies, bathing him after. 

What he does remember is the cold, betrayed look in Mycroft’s eyes. And how he shied away when Jim reached out to brush the skin under his eyes with him thumb. 

The nervous thudding in his chest is jarringly missing as Jim thinks,  _he knows_. He knows Jim set him up. Made him choose. Between losing him or betraying his principles. 

And now he has regrets. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lbr if I did a vamp au it would be a comedy where squeamish-vamp-mycroft who(drinks people through a straw behind a sheet) who has a chip on his shoulder & needs to prove that he can take over the world without hypnotizing people into doing his bidding thank you very much  
> he's not a secret ginger either, instead he dyes his darker hair slightly lighter here and there every once in a while so people see and think 'oh that's why he's so pale' 'oh thats what the umbrella's for'  
> meanwhile sherlock straight up rolls up to crime scenes with a venti starbucks clear cup of dark red goop that he slurps through a straw and people are all 'oh that's just part of his aesthetic tm' ok


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft  _ always  _ caves.

 

They’re standing with drinks at the window this time, playing  _ civil _ in some trumped up attempt at drawing up some treaty, when he drops the glass so quick Jim doesn’t catch it, doesn’t  _ care _ , because his mouth is on Jim’s, hands fisted in his hair, pushing him  _ so hard _ into the wall that the decorative fixtures dig into his back (the least of his worries right now, really). 

 

Mycroft scrapes his teeth down Jim’s neck and Jim forgets how to breathe, forgets he scarcely needs to anyway. He claws at the man, wanting more, more of everything, and nearly tears out his belt.

 

“Patience is a virtue,” Mycroft murmurs. “Nearly seven hundred years and you still haven’t learned.”

 

Patience can go fuck itself, Jim thinks. Instead he hisses, “I have been waiting for this for a  _ half century _ ,” and Mycroft gets the picture.

 

.

 

This is what they do. Every couple years (decades, centuries, what does it matter?) Mycroft is overcome with guilt, shame, righteous indignation, or some combination of the above. He retreats. Jim handles it badly, catastrophically, apocalyptically, or some combination of the above. They fight, they leave, they develop odd coping mechanisms.

 

Mycroft drops the girl - a  _ minor princess _ \- drained now, and resumes devouring Jim. He could get used to this, Jim thinks, running his fingers over Mycroft’s shoulderblades. 

 

“Let’s move back to London,” he says.

 

Jim frowns. “Alright.”

 

Mycroft’s plan is to worm his way into the government, and take control. “Restore it to its former glory,” he says, and Jim knows he’s picturing empires that don’t exist anymore. 

 

Things don’t work like that these days. Mycroft has always had his nostalgic moments though (a dark voice whispers that it’s the only reason he’s come back to Jim - as soon as he’s had his fix, he’ll think himself strong enough to kick the habit - and leave him again). 

 

Jim humors him anyway.

 

The next decade is  _ blissful _ .

 

They don’t even have to scheme their way into it - people like them were made to rule, Jim thinks, and Mycroft is a perfect example. It’s not the immortality, or even the otherworldiness. It’s observation, decisiveness, brilliance, foresight. Perhaps the perspective of several centuries help, but perhaps not.

 

Step by step, they seize the inner workings and become the decision makers, and soon England’s reach is extending far beyond its borders in ways it never had.

 

Then - the  _ routine -  _ it starts to set in. Jim knows the early signs of this, he’s seen it all too often. They’ll get bored, they’ll bicker, and break each other’s hearts.

 

The best is when it turns into an all-out war, the worst is when Mycroft turns to idolizing humans in some warped form of penance for his lost humanity. He gave a ring to some merchant once, in the 1600s, and Jim set fire to an entire city before locking himself in a crypt for two months.

 

He comes up behind Mycroft’s chair, wraps his arms around his shoulders and plops his chin down on Mycroft’s head.

 

“He’s pretty,” Jim comments. A man on the CCTV feed. Young, a bit gaunt actually, but the dark hair and pale skin and the glittering, otherworldly eyes - Jim thinks Mycroft has a type. 

 

“Mm.” 

 

Jim frowns. That’s not a contemplating-a-threesome hum, that’s the I-think-I’ve-found-a-protege hum. The last one  _ did _ start a war. 

 

Jim recognizes the early signs (of  _ the routine) _ so he does what he knows best; he build an empire to rival Mycroft’s, tenacious in all the ways he knows will get under his skin. He’ll take hostages if he has to, whereas Mycroft still mistakes himself for a diplomat sometimes. 

 

Jim traces the bites and bruises on Mycroft’s collarbone later, watching them fade. He’s not ready for the rift yet. He’s  _ never _ ready for it, else he’s over-prepared, and ends up pushing Mycroft away before the  _ routine _ has even occurred to him. Jim will cry and rage and scream this time, though it’s never really pretty. 

 

He wonders whether, if he were the type that would hold Mycroft back from his more unsavory machinations, Mycroft would like him more. 

 

No; he banishes the thought as quickly as it comes. No one else could handle such a temperamental lover; they’re already perfect for each other. 


End file.
